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by bombcollar



Category: Bugsnax (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Canon, now with epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29379813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: Gramble returns to his hometown after his first year of college.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

Everything was just the same as he remembered. Same truck stop, same Zoosie’s Family Diner with its shiny chrome and orange trees planted out front, same comic book shop with posters in the windows faded to a pastel blue by the sun. It was past five already, so most of the stores were closed. Gramble gets himself a grape soda from the dusty machine outside the bus station. Normally he didn’t treat himself to this sort of thing, but the summer sunset wouldn’t be until much later, the air was thick as soup, and it was a long walk back home.

The glass becomes slick in his paws as soon as he pops the cap off. Nighttime would bring little relief, but he ought to be home by then. His parents’ house was only a few miles outside of town, and town itself wasn’t much more than a few stoplights. A few folks he passes on the nearly-empty streets return his greetings when he waves to them, but he’s not sure if any of them recognize him now.

The drive-in theater marks the town limits, pretty much, its parking lot empty while the sun still hung in the sky. Sometimes on breezy nights he could hear the action movies they showed, the booming, fuzzy sound carried across the fields. Gramble glances at the posters as he passes. Maybe he’d try to catch something while he was here. If he was lucky, he could get a job at one of the bigger farms now that he had a semester of animal husbandry classes under his belt. Hell, he’d take mucking out stalls over being stuck at home all summer. He’d save up his money and maybe next semester he could get an apartment off campus, finally live on his own for real. Of course, he could still visit his hometown if he wanted to. He’d tell himself that, think fondly of it, but he knew deep down that he wouldn’t come back if he didn’t have to. Not ever.

The paved road turns to dirt and potholes, filled with muddy water, reflecting the pale yellow sky. Frogs soak in them, finding relief from the oven-like heat of the late afternoon, hardly bothering to hop out of the way as he walks by. Gramble hopes they’ll be quicker if someone happens to drive down the road. Butterflies seem to struggle to beat their wings as they wobble from flower to flower, but bees and wasps zip by unencumbered, visiting the weeds that have sprung up in the fallow fields.

He tucks his empty soda bottle into his backpack and slings it over his shoulder again. The unused fields have given way to the forest. Bright yellow signs, blooming with rust, warn him not to trespass.

Home is the same as he remembers, too. Same weedy, overgrown yard. Same rotting porch, threatening to collapse in on itself. Same swing set in the backyard, slowly being swallowed by nature. The windows are dark, no cars parked in the drive. Maybe he’d gotten lucky and nobody was home. It’d give him a little more time to prepare. Gramble gingerly climbs the steps to the front door and raises a hand to knock, but the door is already standing slightly ajar. Hinge was probably broken. He pushes it open enough to poke his head inside.

The living room is empty. There are still imprints in the shaggy carpet where the couch and TV stand had been, faded outlines of photo frames on the wood paneling. Gramble’s heart drops directly through the splintery wood below him. He numbly steps into the house, treading in a fine layer of dust that had settled on the linoleum. Off to the side of the short hallway, the door to his bedroom is standing open. It’s empty too, of everything but the bed frame. Everything he’d ever owned had been in there, his clothes, his books, his craft supplies, things he’d bought with his own money, gifts from friends over years and years, things he’d kept from childhood because they still brought him comfort… They’d gotten rid of all of it. Anything else he had to his name was back in his dorm room, hours and hours away.

Gramble sinks to his knees, nails digging into the soft wood of the door frame. Because there was no one around to hear him, he could cry as loud as he wanted to. And he did.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gramble learns about Lizbert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not originally planning to write a second part, but I've been so mean to Gramble, I wanted to end on a happier note.

The walk into town had never felt longer.

Once he’d calmed down as best he could, Gramble had searched the house for any message, any sign that might have pointed to where the rest of his family had gone, but there was nothing. Anything that wasn’t nailed down had been either packed up or thrown in a dumpster somewhere, probably. They had no neighbors that lived close by, and he didn’t want to go walking along country roads at night, in the dark. Folks around here were usually friendly, but you never know who might be passing through.

His best bet would be to return to town, get a cheap motel room and get some rest. In the morning he could figure out what to do. Gramble tries to comfort himself with that thought as he pads along the same dirt road he’d come down earlier. One thing at a time. One foot in front of the other.

The No Trespassing signs hang ghostly from the trees, floating in the darkness. Nocturnal animals skitter in the brush, scampering across his path. In the thin moonlight, he can’t see well enough to tell what they are. There wasn’t anything more dangerous living around here than the occasional coyote or deer, but every rustle gets his heart racing all over again.

The frogs he’d passed before were singing in the fields, an unseen chorus all around him. He stumbles as he steps in a flooded pothole, cursing as he sinks into the mud up to his ankle.

He hears the drive-in theater before he sees it, following the distant lights when they come into view, and dimly wonders what they’re playing tonight. Violin screeches suggest a horror film, one where couples would hold hands during the scary parts.

His paws ache by the time he reaches asphalt. The glow of the Zoosie’s Diner neon sign beckons him. He hadn’t had anything to eat since he got off the bus hours ago. While he hated the thought of showing his red-eyed, tearstained face in public, the idea of going to bed hungry was worse.

He gets a piece of homemade pie to go. It’s strawberry. The waitress who takes his order asks him if he’s alright, hon? He tells her he’s just tired.

The motel room has walls of whitewashed cinderblocks, which look yellow in the greasy light of the bedside table lamp, the faint, sour smell of cigarettes lingering in the air despite the air freshener plugged into the wall and the No Smoking signs. Gramble is sure the walls are thin as paper, but he lets himself cry some more in the shower anyway, curled up at the bottom of the bathtub. Crying was okay, he could cry as much as he wanted. What he couldn’t do was let himself linger on the question of _why_. Because he already knew why.

Now clean and feeling marginally lighter from the shower and cry he’d allowed himself, Gramble sits on the bed and flips through channels on the old television set, settling on a news channel so wouldn’t have to eat alone in silence.

The strawberry pie is delicious, made with fresh berries, not the syrupy kind from a can. He should have gotten a second piece. As he eats, taking care not to poke holes in the Styrofoam container, the anchor introduces a clip from an interview some other channel had done.

A shaggy gray grumpus with prominent tusks appears onscreen, smiling at the camera with practiced confidence.

“So, can you explain to the viewers at home what exactly you’re recruiting for, Ms. Megafig?” The interviewer asks from out of frame.

“I’m looking to put together a talented team of grumpuses for an expedition to an uncharted island,” she explains. Gramble notices she’s standing strangely, one arm held behind her back. He sets the container down, watching more intently. “We’ll be studying the local wildlife and living off the land, so I need folks with a wide range of talents who’re willing to work together and support our little community.”

“Is there going to be any danger involved?” asks the interviewer.

The gray grumpus scoffs, waving her free paw dismissively. “Well, there’s always risks when it comes to new ventures, but I can promise you, under my guidance and expertise, nobody will have anything to worry about.”

She goes on to explain a little about the island’s terrain and the sort of skills she was looking for, as Gramble watches, his food completely forgotten for the moment. Her excitement and enthusiasm for this expedition shine through the façade of secrecy she was obviously trying to maintain. He catches himself smiling as he watches.

The clip ends, and the channel switches back to the regular news anchors. “That was Elizabert Megafig-”

Gramble grabs for the notepad next to the phone on the bedside table and scribbles down her name. What she was describing sounded exactly like what he needed. People who he could help, a place he could be useful, where his skills and compassion would be valued. 

A place to disappear to.

If they ever did come back, if they somehow had a change of heart, he’d make sure that they never found him. He’d make his own family, somewhere far away. And he would be happy.


End file.
